


Round and Round Like a Wheel

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Leverage, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV), The Breakfast Club (1985), The West Wing
Genre: Boss's Day, Canon Temporary Character Death, Diplomacy, Easter, Easter Egg Hunt, Fat Tuesday, Ficlet Collection, Flag Day, Food, Fourth of July, Getting Back Together, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Holidays, Journey to the Underworld, Lent, London, Minor Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Multi, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Politics, Pride Day, Prompt Fill, Samhain, Star Wars Day, Stealth Crossover, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Dinner, Truth Serum, Valentine's Day, involuntary drug use, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:22:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2721956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A multifandom collection of holiday-related prompt replies, originally posted on tumblr. Give me your Pride Day, your Flag Day, your Boss's Day, yearning to breathe free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. C/C Samhain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/gifts), [pterawaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterawaters/gifts), [Skaboom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skaboom/gifts), [ericaismeg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ericaismeg/gifts), [the_wordbutler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/gifts), [pterriblepterodactyls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterriblepterodactyls/gifts), [Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But…but I labored! I have done labors. _Hercules_ didn’t labor this hard. I did what you asked of me. Now take my damned soul and give me back my husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> raiining said something along the lines of, "Remember when we had all those great Samhain fics where Clint sells his soul to get Phil back. Is it better or worse now that we know Phil's alive?"
> 
> I took these prompts in October, and the first two to come in were Samhain and Halloween, respectively, so I'm organizing this is the neo-Pagan manner, with Samhain as the beginning of the new year.

**The Eighth Labor of Clint Barton**

"Are you kidding me?” Clint demanded. His voice rang loud in the echoing chambers of the underworld. Probably not many shouting people here. “Are you seriously fucking kidding me?”

Hela shrugged, unmoved. “Sorry, kid. No deal.”

”But…but I labored!” Clint wailed. “I have done labors. _Hercules_ didn’t labor this hard.” He stalked closer, got right up in her face, which, okay, no one ever said danger avoidance was Clint’s strongest suit. “I did what you asked of me. Now take my damned soul and give me back my husband.”

Hela looked down at the clipboard that had materialized in her hand. “Yes, I see you completed your seven labors as agreed, well done.” She looked him up and down appreciatively. “You’re definitely built right for hero work.” Clint scowled and crossed his arms. Hela set down the clipboard and leaned forward, endearingly earnest and every inch her father’s daughter. Clint braced himself; whatever she said next was going to hurt like a son of a bitch. “Unfortunately, Mr. Barton, I can’t sell you what I don’t have.”

”What you don’t—oh, do  _not_  shit with me, lady.” He paced away and back, patience long fled and panic racing toward the top of the emotional heap. Samhain would end in twenty minutes; he had to close the deal by midnight or be forced to wait six more months for the veil to thin so he could try again. Unacceptable. “Okay, fine, you don’t have him, but I know you underworld guys talk. You can find him. You can  _get him_.”

”I  _can’t_ ,” Hela insisted. “See for yourself.” She held out the clipboard; he looked reluctantly. “Coulson, Philip J. Returned to Midgard to walk among the living several months ago.”

”To walk among— _Fury_!” Clint slammed his hands against a convenient rock. “Where?”

Hela shrugged and turned away. “The living bore me. Find him yourself.”

”I intend to,” Clint snarled, turning to storm out. Just as soon as he figured out how to get out of here.

”I’ll gladly take your soul if you’re still looking to sell!” Hela called after him.

”Go to hell!” he yelled back, not realizing what he’d said until Hela’s malicious laughter caught up to him. He gritted his teeth and set off in search of the exit from this damned place ( _oh, crap, another one_ ). The instant he had cell coverage again, he was calling Natasha. Finding Phil when Fury didn’t want him found was going to be his hardest labor yet.


	2. Allydia Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nothing was sexy about late Victorian fashion in Canada."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [MadMadamM,](http://mad-madam-m.tumblr.com/), who requested Allydia + Halloween costumes.

**Kindred Spirits**

"Lydia, I am  _not_ going as a sexy zombie for Halloween!”

Lydia put her hands on her hips. “It’s the most accurate costume here. You’re  _definitely_ sexy, and you came back from the d—”

"Stop." Allison laughed and wrapped her arms around Lydia’s waist. "What would you be, a sexy zombie hunter?"

Lydia looked away coyly. “Maybe,” she said, drawing the word out. Her eyes lit on another costume on the rack behind them, and her eyes lit up. “Oh! How about Robin Hood? I could be your Maid Marian.”

Allison eyed her knowingly as she turned to grab the costumes. “Would that be  _sexy_ Robin Hood and  _sexy_ Maid Marian?”

Lydia shrugged and led the way to the tiny dressing room. She got them out of their clothes quickly but needed a suspiciously long time to get them into the costumes. And if her hand  _happened_ to brush often against Allison’s stomach, or the top of her thigh, or the side of her breast—well. They were  _very_ crowded in the dressing room.

Almost an hour and several wardrobe changes later, Allison collapsed onto the bench outside the fitting room and refused to move. “Allison, come  _on_ ,” Lydia cajoled.

"No." Allison held up her hand. "No, Lydia, I’m sorry, but absolutely not. No more. I’ve tried on fourteen costumes, and I’m  _done_.” She eyed Lydia shrewdly as she settled beside her. “Are we  _actually_ looking for Halloween costumes?”

Lydia stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sighing, Allison took Lydia’s closer hand in both of hers. “Lyds. We tried on all these costumes, and neither of us would go out in public in any of them. You didn’t like any of them, but you didn’t have anything to  _say_ about any of them. That’s not like you.”

Lydia groaned and leaned into Allison’s side. “Why do you have to see through my clever ploys?” She turned on the bench, eyes bright. “Allison, we are going as Anne Shirley and Diana Barry.” When Allison’s eyebrows lifted in shock, she hastily added, “Unless you  _really_ don’t want to. But I was shopping last week and found a blue dress with puffed sleeves. It’s kind of hideous, and it’s  _perfect_. I know I can find something for you.” She bit her lip. “Please?”

"Ugh." Allison rested her head against the wall. " _Nothing_ was sexy about late Victorian fashion in Canada.”

"Except that it’s us," Lydia countered, "and we’re  _always_ sexy.”

Allison laughed and stood, hauling Lydia up with her. “Why did we even come here, if you have our costumes planned?”

“Please,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes. “I will never pass up an excuse to get you into a tiny room and undress you.”

Smiling, Allison took Lydia’s hand and led her out of the store. “Come, my bosom friend, let us away.” She caught Lydia’s other hand before it had moved more than an inch. “ _Not_ in public.”

"You’re wrong, Allison," Lydia said confidently. "This is going to be a  _very_ sexy Halloween.”


	3. Eliot/Parker/Hardison Thanksgiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Know your limits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pterawaters requested _Leverage_ OT3 Thanksgiving, with Eliot determined to make everything perfect, even when it keeps going wrong.
> 
>  **Trigger warning:** a lot of food and food-talk herein.

**Eliot Spencer's Guide to the Perfect Thanksgiving**

**Side dish: Candied sweet potatoes with maple-cayenne pecans**

_Step one:_   _Do not_ let your girlfriend do your grocery shopping. Alec has been waxing poetic for days about your “candied yams,” and Parker doesn’t know that most Americans say “yam” when they mean “sweet potato.” You will find yourself staring down a three-foot long, tuberous…thing with bark-like skin—and have no idea what to do with it.

**Main course: Herb-roasted turkey breast with cranberry-bourbon glaze.**

_Step one:_  Hire a professional electrician to rewire the brewpub’s smoke detection system. Under no circumstances should you believe your boyfriend when he says, “Sweetness, you know I got this.” Even his genius has limits.

 _Step two:_  Preheat oven to 350°F.

 _Step three:_  When the fire alarm inevitably goes off, call 911 immediately. Do not wait for Mrs. Nguyen next door to make the call. Mrs. Nguyen thinks all three of you work for a CDC bioterrorism unit. She will tell 911 dispatch that her next-door neighbors have received a sarin bomb. The block will be evacuated.

**Side dish: Rosemary potato bread.**

_Step one:_  Know your limits. For all her faults, Mrs. Nguyen makes the best potato bread you’ve ever tasted and will sell you a ball of dough for five bucks and whatever small home repair she can guilt you into doing for her.

 _Step two:_  Prepare bread according to Mrs. Nguyen’s exacting instructions. This will require getting up at 4:00 on Thanksgiving morning, but it’s not like you sleep, anyway.

 _Step three:_  After baking, leave the bread on the counter to cool.  _Do not_  let Parker bring it outside with her when the building is evacuated (Why would you even do that, Parker? _Why_?). She may be startled by an approaching siren and drop the bread on the sidewalk, which will be wet, because you’re the idiots who followed Nate to Portland.

**Dessert: Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra ice cream.**

_Step one:_  When all else fails, let your significant others buy you dinner at that organic sushi place run by Canadian ex-pats who refuse to acknowledge American holidays. Pick up ice cream from the 7-11 on the corner and spend the rest of the night cuddling on the couch, watching ’30s screwball comedies, and Skyping with Sophie and Nate. In the end, Thanksgiving is about family, and you’re damned lucky to have built a family that loves you no matter what.


	4. Mahealahey Thanksgiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Danny warned him they didn’t do a traditional Thanksgiving, Isaac assumed he meant that the food would be different. Two great-aunts who seem to be in on all the supernatural gossip in Beacon County? _That_ he hadn’t expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skaboom wanted Mahealahey Thanksgiving.
> 
>  **Trigger warnings:** food, involuntary dosing with a truth drug, mild Malia-bashing.
> 
> This one has background Stalia.

**White Chrysanthemum**

 

"So, Isaac," says Danny’s Great-Aunt Emerald, "Danny tells us you live with the McCalls. Poi, dear?"

"Uh, yes, please." Isaac takes the dish and spoons poi onto his plate. "And, uh, yeah. I live with the McCalls."

"And why aren’t you spending Thanksgiving with them?" asks Great-Aunt Opal.

"Aunt Opal!" Danny hisses.

"It’s okay," Isaac assures him with a soft smile. "Melissa’s mom broke her hip. Everyone had to come to her this year."

"And you didn’t go with them?"

"Of course we’re happy to have you here," Mrs. Mahealani says, shooting her aunt a pointed look.

Opal ignores it. “I like to know why a young man chooses not to spend the holiday with his people.”

Isaac looks at Danny, who shrugs helplessly. How can Isaac explain this to a woman who clearly thinks family is everything? That he feels  _trapped_ with the Delgados. That spending Thanksgiving dinner with the guy Isaac has a futile crush on is better than watching Melissa’s relatives look at him like he’s about to go on a killing spree. That he remembers just enough junior high Spanish to know when they’re talking about him but not what they’re saying.

"Don’t be silly, Opal," says Emerald. "Ignacia Delgado smokes like a broken chimney. Scott’s a good alpha. He wouldn’t ask one of his betas to deal with that all day."

Isaac’s out of his chair before he entirely realizes he’s moving. He keeps his shift mostly under control, but his eyes flash briefly, and the chair back creaks under his grip.

"Aunt Emerald!" Mr. Mahealani shouts.

Fingers curl around his, warm and slightly calloused. “Isaac,” Danny says gently. Isaac looks down, bringing his breathing under control. “I didn’t tell her,” Danny says, and his heartbeat’s steady.

"Was it supposed to be a secret? You don’t hide it very well." Emerald waves her fork at Isaac. "It’s the way you carry yourself." At the other end of the table, Danny’s sister Kimmy makes a choked-off sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.

Danny squeezes Isaac’s hand and glances toward his chair. Isaac eyes the old ladies across the table warily, but they just blink at him from behind enormous glasses. He stifles a hysterical giggle and sits down.

"What about the one who turned you, dear?" Opal says, and, God bless her, she actually seems to think that’s a safer topic. "One of the Hales, wasn’t it?"

"Derek," Emerald says before Isaac has a chance.

"That’s right. The sad one. You know, in our day werewolf packs spent holidays together." Opal’s fork stabs down into her lomi lomi salmon. "Where is he today?"

"He’s at the Stilinskis’," Danny offers.

"Oh, yes," Emerald gushes. "A lovely family. Danny had quite a crush on Zygmunt in junior high."

Danny’s face does this really  _fascinating_ thing, and Isaac has blackmail material for  _life_. On both Danny and dear old Zygmunt.

"Mostly paladins, Stilinskis are," Emerald is saying, "though I hear the boy has the spark."

"Yes," Opal says, "but his mother was a Nowitska. Magic’s always been in that line. You didn’t want to go there?"

This whole day is making Isaac feel crazy. He’s never been drunk, but it might feel like this. When he’d none-too-subtly wrangled an invitation to the Mahealanis’ after Scott and Melissa’s plans changed, Danny had warned him they didn’t do a traditional Thanksgiving. Isaac assumed he meant that the food would be different (which it definitely is, and more delicious than any Thanksgiving meal he’s ever had). Maybe there’d even be a lecture about smallpox blankets and the holiday’s imperialist, genocidal history.

Two great-aunts who seem to be in on all the supernatural gossip in Beacon County?  _That_  he hadn’t expected.

It's in this spirit of woozy expansiveness that Isaac says, “Not with Scott and Melissa gone. The sheriff’s going to get more and more maudlin about how much his wife loved this time of year. The food’s going to be almost inedible, because Stiles can’t cook. And Malia’s going to spend the whole time griping about what a crappy boyfriend Stiles is, while somehow not noticing him and Derek making sad, pining eyes at each other across the table all afternoon.”

Aunt Emerald beams. “I like this one, Danny. Keep him.”

"Oh, Danny and I aren’t dating," Isaac says easily around a mouthful of idiotically delicious laulau pork. "I want to, but he doesn’t date werewolves anymore."

"Isaac—" Something dark and wounded flashes in Danny’s brown eyes.

Isaac’s about to reassure him that it’s fine when Mrs. Mahealani demands, “Aunt Opal, did you  _dose_  Isaac?”

Opal flaps her hand. “A bit of white chrysanthemum to promote truthfulness. Werewolves can hear lies, you know, but we humans don’t have any advantage.”

The house erupts in chaos and fury. Mr. Mahealani races to grab his phone to call Deaton, while Kimmy, who for some reason has Stiles in her contact list, calls him. Mrs. Mahealani is raining righteous anger down on Opal, who looks like she can’t comprehend what the fuss is about. Isaac feels strangely cocooned: he knows he  _should_  be angry and suspects he will be later, but he can’t access that feeling now.

Amidst the hubbub, Danny takes Isaac’s hand and leads him out of the dining room and up the stairs to his bedroom. Isaac’s never been in Danny’s room, but he’s not surprised by how calm he feels inside it. How soothing the layout and colors seem.

Danny pushes Isaac onto the bed and kneels, pulling off Isaac’s shoes. Then he stands and shoves Isaac’s shoulder until he lies down. Isaac can’t figure out the emotions in his eyes. “I’m so sorry she did this to you, Isaac,” Danny says softly. His hand raises like he wants to touch Isaac but drops before making contact. “We’ll figure out how to reverse it.”

"Sure, okay." Isaac says. He knows, abstractly, that he should want that, but right now he just feels so floaty.

Kimmy bursts into the room, phone in hand. “Okay, Stiles, you’re on speaker. Danny and Isaac are here.”

"Hey, guys," Stiles says. "How you feeling, Isaac?"

"Like I’m not really here. It’s kinda cool."

"Uh, yeah, not cool at all." Stiles laughs nervously. "Good news is, a mild dose of magicked-up chrysanthemum isn’t going to do you any lasting damage. I’m coming over with an antidote as soon as I get it made—shut up, Malia, I’m not gonna let him suffer just because you haven’t had pie yet—but you can burn it off faster if you sleep for a while."

"Nah, I’m fine," Isaac insists.

Danny snorts and squeezes Isaac’s ankle. “I’ll make sure he sleeps,” he promises Stiles.

"Great," Stiles says. "See you in about an hour. Uh, don’t let him eat or drink anything else until I get there. Sometimes there are interactions."

"Got it. Thanks, Stiles." Danny ends the call and tosses the phone back to Kimmy.

"You need anything?" she asks as she catches it.

"Just keep Aunt Opal away from me,” he says darkly.

"Oh, they’re gone," Kimmy assures him. "Dad threw them out. Loudly."

"Good," Danny says.

Isaac wonders if he’s supposed to feel bad that an old lady got yelled at because of him. But, no, it’s not  _because of_  him; it’s because she did something  _to_  him. Right? His head feels fuzzy. “Danny?” he asks, reaching for Danny’s hand. “I’m going to sleep now, okay?”

"Yeah," Danny says, patting his hand. "That’s a good idea. I’ll wake you up when Stiles gets here."

Isaac tugs Danny’s hand. “Please stay. I want you to stay.”

Danny doesn’t hesitate for even a second before he’s kicking off his shoes and climbing onto the bed beside Isaac. “Someone come get us when Stiles gets here,” he tells Kimmy, who nods and slips from the room.

For a minute they lie side-by-side on their backs. Isaac still feels logy, and now he’s exhausted, too. He hopes Stiles takes his time getting here; he can use the sleep.

Danny rolls onto his side so he faces Isaac. Isaac turns his head and tries to bring Danny into focus. “You okay?” Danny whispers.

Isaac shrugs. “An old lady magic roofied me. I feel kinda stupid.”

Danny winces. “Yeah.” Danny’s hand lands, almost delicately, on Isaac’s sternum. The heat of it warms Isaac to his core. “Hey, did you mean what you said about wanting to date me?”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Of course I meant it. Can’t lie right now, right? But I’m not going to push. You said—”

"Yeah, I know what I said." Danny makes a frustrated sound and takes his hand away to rub his forehead. A disappointed whimper escapes Isaac’s throat, and Danny instantly puts his hand back. "I was so  _mad_  at Ethan. And so sad and scared about Aiden and Allison dying. And I just—I said the one thing I  _knew_ would convince him to go. I don’t—” He takes a deep breath. Isaac listens to his heartbeat; it’s fast but steady. “I’d give it another shot, for the right guy.”

"Am I the right guy?" Isaac’s half asleep and wooly-brained, so he has to ask to be sure. "I’d sure like to be."

"Yeah, Isaac," Danny says, voice fond. "I really think you might be."

"Cool," Isaac says. He curls his fingers around Danny’s and closes his eyes. He thinks lips brush gently over his temple, but he’s asleep before he can be sure.


	5. Sterek New Year's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Still think I’m stupid?"
> 
> "Hard to say. Kiss me again, to be sure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ericaismeg said Sterek + New Year's Eve

**Be It Resolved**

 

**_12:02 am, January 1_**

"Still think I’m stupid?"

"Hard to say. Kiss me again, to be sure."

 

**_12:01 am, January 1_**

"Happy New Year, Derek. I…I love you."

"Happy New Year, Stiles. I love you, too."

 

**_12:00 am, January 1_**

"—2, 1! Happy New Year!!!"

"HEY, EVERYBODY! DEREK AND STILES ARE MAKING OUT!"

"For fuck’s sake, McCall, grow some class."

"After you, Jackson."

 

**_11:59, December 31_**

"10, 9, 8, 7—"

"Last chance to back out."

"—4, 3—"

"Stiles, stop being stupid and kiss me."

 

**_11:58, December 31_ **

"I’ll be kissing you at midnight."

"What? Why? Stiles, why would you even want to do that?"

"Because we started  _this_  year by breaking up, Derek, and it’s been the worst twelve months of my life, and that includes the year where I was  _possessed_. I want to start next year by  _fixing it_.”

"…You’re drunk."

"Maybe, but I stand by my statement, so unless you tell me no, I’ll be kissing you in…90 seconds."

"I’m…not going to tell you no."


	6. Berica Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though this was going to be their first Valentine’s Day together, they’d been dating long enough for Boyd to know the difference between things she actually didn’t care about and things she just wanted people to think she didn’t care about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from ericaismeg: Erica says not to make a big deal out of Valentine's Day, but Boyd knows better.
> 
> (Background Sterek in this one.)

**Feats of Strength**

 

"—so if somebody’s going to waste money on me next week—"

"If it’s such a  _waste_ —”

"No, okay, not  _waste_ , but—”

Boyd nudged Erica’s shoulder. “You think he’s got a point?”

She snorted. “Which one?”

"I’m just saying, if someone needed to make it  _Valentine’s Day_ -specific,” Stiles went on, oblivious to the reactions he was getting, “they could just put a video game in a heart-shaped box.”

Erica snorted. “And he wonders why he’s single.”

Boyd considered how close Stiles and Derek were walking and shrugged. “I think he’s doing all right for himself.” Leaving the guys to their fighting (flirting? It was a fine line, with those two), he stroked his thumb over the side of Erica’s hand and asked, “What do  _you_ want to do for Valentine’s Day?”

Erica scoffed, but even though this was going to be their first Valentine’s Day together, they’d been dating long enough for Boyd to know the difference between things she  _actually_ didn’t care about and things she just wanted people to  _think_ she didn’t care about. “We don’t have to make a big deal out of it.”

"I know we don’t  _have to_ ,” he said, nodding, “but maybe I want to. First Valentine’s together and everything.”

"Whatever," she said with a sniff. "We can just hit the grocery store and buy a frozen pizza or something. I'll pick us up a piece of cheesecake at Mama's at the end of my shift. Hey, did Derek give you and Isaac the Lupercalia lecture?"

"Werewolf Valentine’s Day," Boyd snorted. "Yeah." He glanced over at her. "Why? Want me to woo you with feats of strength? Leave a Lupercalia deer outside your house?"

She shoved him. “My mother would kill you. She doesn’t even like venison.”

Boyd laughed, but, oh, he had an idea now.

*

When Boyd walked into Mama’s Bakery on February 13th, Mama took one look at the pan in his hand and burst out laughing. “Child, I have no idea where you found that monstrosity, but Erica’s a lucky woman to have someone in her life who’s so thoughtful  _and_ so weird.”

Boyd grinned. “Will it work? It’s not springform.”

Mama patted his arm. “Leave that to Mama. You go wash your hands and grab the chocolate. We got a lot of work to do.”

*

Boyd barely got the Hale house front door shut behind him on the 14th when Erica leapt on him, pinning him to the door and kissing him so hard he felt it in his toes. “You are the sexiest man  _ever_ ,” she informed him before diving back in for another kiss.

He settled his hands on her hips and leaned them back against the door. “You like it?”

"Boyd, it’s  _amazing_. It’s _delicious_ , oh my god. It tastes like the ones from Mama’s.”

He grinned. “That’s because Mama helped me make it.”

"Are you  _kidding_ me? Come here.  _Come. Here._ " She kissed him again, this time so hard he swore he felt it in  _her_ toes. “ _And_ my mother freaked out when she found it on the doorstep. Which was super-cool.” Another kiss. “Thanks for the raspberry swirl.”

"Cherry looked more realistic, but I know you like raspberry better."

"Of course you do. You are the best werewolf boyfriend ever." She grabbed his hand and hauled him into the kitchen.

Stiles held up his hand for a high five, which Boyd gave reluctantly. “Dude, full points. Really embracing the true meaning of both Valentine’s Day and werewolfhood with your creepy deer-shaped cheesecake.”

Boyd looked at the cheesecake pan. “Where’s the head?”

"Stiles ate it," Derek said, his own piece reduced to crumbs in front of him.

"Tattletale!" Stiles wailed. " _You_ are the  _worst_ werewolf boyfriend ever!”

Well,  _that_ was a new development, though hardly a surprising one. Boyd looked pointedly at the brand new copy of  _Evolve_ sitting in a heart-shaped box in the middle of the island counter. Stiles turned red and muttered something about stupid romantic gestures not making up for general lack of life skills.

Boyd snorted and tugged Erica across the kitchen to the freezer, where he pulled out the deep-dish pizza he’d ordered from the place in Chicago that she was always talking about.

"For  _real_?” Erica shrieked. She went back to the counter and started shoving Derek off his stool. “Out! Out of the house!”

He stared at her. “My house,” he said helplessly.

"Don’t care. My man ordered Chicago-style deep-dish pizza and _made me_ a Mama’s chocolate raspberry cheesecake. You do  _not_ want to be in the house for what happens next.”

"Sex things?" Stiles asked, absurdly hopeful.

"Eating pizza and cheesecake and not sharing with  _you_ things,” she snapped.

"Okay, fine,  _going_ , jeez,” Stiles said, grabbing his jacket and shoving their still-protesting alpha out the door.

As soon as they were alone with their headless cheesecake and a preheating oven, Boyd grabbed Erica’s belt loops and pulled her flush against him. He stroked her blond curls back from her face and kissed her temple. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby,” he murmured.

Erica hummed happily. “Hey, Boyd?”

"Uh-huh?"

"Thanks for making a big deal."

He chuckled and held her closer. “Any time.”


	7. Brian/Bender Fat Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being the good humanist he was raised to be, “Catholic tradition” wasn’t the first thing that came to Brian’s mind when his boyfriend returned to their dumpy Evanston apartment one spring Sunday hauling more groceries than they usually bought in a month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the_wordbutler, Brian/Bender, Fat Tuesday.
> 
> This is set in the [Lysistrataverse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1699259) and takes place during the guys' Evanston years, after they're officially together.
> 
> Title from Tom Lehrer's "Vatican Rag."

**If Your Sin's Original**

 

Little-known fact: religion wasn’t paid much more than lip service in the Bender household, but what lip service there was got paid in a Catholic sort of way. John bore little love for Mother Church now, but some habits died hard.

Still, being the good humanist he was raised to be, “Catholic tradition” wasn’t the first thing that came to Brian’s mind when his boyfriend returned to their dumpy Evanston apartment one spring Sunday hauling more groceries than they usually bought in a month. “You knock over the Jewel-Osco, buddy?” he asked as he wandered onto the kitchen.

"Fuck you, dweeb-o," John said genially. He gave Brian a quick, dirty kiss and waved at the bags that had overtaken the counter. "Help me put this shit away."

The first thing Brian noticed was how many donuts there were. There was also a fuck-ton of bacon and the biggest box of Bisquick the world had ever known. “Christ, John, are you planning on feeding every juvenile offender in Cook County?”

John blew his hair out of his eyes and glared at Brian. “Tuesday is Shrove Tuesday, genius.” Brian looked at him blankly. “Fat Tuesday? Eat all the delicious shit before you give it up for Lent?”

Brian brightened. “Oh, Mardis Gras!”

"Yes, fine, Mardis Gras," John huffed. "Heathen."

Brian shook the box of Bisquick. “You giving up Bisquick for Lent?”

"No, doofus, it’s pancake day. That’s what people do." He lowered his head and said quietly, "Probably give up pot. ‘Swhat I usually do."

Brian had moments like this sometimes. Flashes of insight where he realized that, during the years they refused to name this thing between them, they weren’t just missing out on the name and the shared bed. They were quietly, perhaps unknowingly, keeping the most vulnerable pieces of themselves from each other. Now that John had said it, Brian remembered a couple times he’d stopped smoking up for a couple months. But when Brian asked, John had claimed he was too broke, or his dealer was out of town. What hurt John more, Brian wondered: hiding the truth then, or admitting it now?

"Sounds good," Brian said, trying to keep his tone light. John’s look said he was on to Brian anyway. Like he always was.

Brian covered his embarrassment by reaching back into the grocery bag in front of him. The package at the bottom turned out to be a bag of cheap plastic Mardis Gras beads, gaudy in yellow, purple, and gold. “There’s a tradition with these, right?” he said.

John snorted. “You want me to show you my tits, Bri-Bri?”

Brian’s mouth flooded with saliva. He wouldn’t turn down that offer, because John had a fantastic chest. But they shouldn’t kid themselves. What they were really talking about here was—”Maybe I’d rather show you mine.” Turned out Brian had insanely sensitive nipples.

John smiled, fast and wicked, and crowded Brian against the counter. “No fucking way I’m giving  _this_  up for Lent,” he muttered.

Somehow they ended up dusted in Bisquick and with a package of donuts squished under Brian’s ass. Still. When Brian came to bed that night, John was waiting for him wearing 20 strands of cheap plastic beads—and nothing else. And, well. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all, this religion thing.


	8. Stoyd Easter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hadn’t been ready, was all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From ericaismeg's request for Stoyd at an Easter Egg Hunt

**Find the Best Prize**

 

"…which is a clever ruse. Unless it’s a double ruse, in which case we should go back before Deputy Haigh’s demon spawn get their grubby fingers on a good stash."

"Stiles. The Haigh kids aren’t even in our division. They’re seven and four." Boyd was  _not_  going to let on how amusing he found Stiles’ vendetta against the under-ten set.

"I know," Stiles said darkly. "Creepy mini-Satans. Fortunately, you have me, and if we apply my finely honed investigative skills and your air of brooding stoicism, we should be able to—"

"Why do you never shut up? It can’t be genetic, ‘cause I know your dad, and I remember your mom."

"Look," Stiles said sharply as he flung another egg into Boyd’s basket, "if you want silence and solitude, you can stand in Brooders’ Row." He gestured to the section of fence where Derek, Braeden, and Chris Argent stood, all with crossed arms and identical expressions of bored disdain. "But you chose me as a partner for this, and I’m guessing it wasn’t for my rakish good looks. So let me do my thing, okay?"

Boyd  _did_  find Stiles good-looking, in a scrawny white boy way, but no way he was saying so. He glared harder and said, “I chose you because I want to win. Doesn’t mean I like having to put up with your mouth for forty minutes.”

Though they’d finally settled down and built an incredible pack bond, Derek’s four betas retained an intense competitiveness, and the Martins’ annual Easter Egg hunt had become the focus of a lot of that energy. The day Boyd had walked in on both Jackson _and_ Erica trying to sweet-talk Lydia into being their partner, he’d realized that serious alliances were being formed.

He hadn’t chosen Stiles lightly. Lydia was cunning and ruthless, and the hunt was at her house. Scott had gotten very good at tracking since becoming an alpha. Danny could probably coax the eggs into the open by smiling at them.

But Stiles was a strategist. Boyd figured he’d take one look at the layout of the yard and home in on likely hot spots. So far, he hadn’t steered them wrong, and their baskets were over half full.

He hadn’t been ready, was all. Somehow, their years as classmates, teammates, and packmates hadn’t prepared Boyd for forty minutes of Stiles’ snark and long-fingered gestures, for Stiles devouring the pastel-wrapped mini peanut butter cups he made appear from out of nowhere. Hadn’t prepared him for staring at Stiles’ mouth, wondering if it tasted like chocolate.

Boyd tore his gaze from Stiles’ mouth and looked around. Jackson had ended up working with Danny, who did seem to have garnered several eggs by charm alone. Scott and Kira were working together, and too busy giving each other heart-eyes to be much threat. Allison’s keen tracking skills made her a good match for Isaac’s instincts, and Boyd didn’t know how Erica had convinced Parrish to be her partner, but they appeared to be doing well together.

Of course, they were all competing for second place, because as soon as Lydia had stepped up to the starting line to stand next to Cora, the rest of them knew it was game over.

A rustling at his side drew Boyd’s attention as another peanut butter cup disappeared into Stiles’ mouth. “You know,” Stiles said casually, “there is one for-sure way of getting me to shut my mouth.”

Boyd’s own mouth went dry. He swallowed and forced his gaze away from Stiles’ mouth. “Whatever,” he grumbled, but it came out rougher than he’d been aiming for.

And then Stiles was right in front of him, crowding up into his space, the hand not holding his egg basket sliding up Boyd’s chest. Boyd’s gaze flicked over Stiles’ face, and he breathed in deep. There was no joke, none of Stiles’ casual cruelty. Stiles’ pupils were dilated, and he smelled like  _want_.

"I doubt even that could shut you up for long," Boyd murmured. He put his hand under Stiles’ chin and tilted his face up for a kiss.

Stiles parted his lips instantly, his tongue coaxing Boyd’s forward. He tasted a little like chocolate and mostly like Stiles, and Boyd lost himself in the soft press of lips and the heat of Stiles’ hand on his chest.

"Boyd," Erica called, and Boyd pulled away from Stiles reluctantly and slid his hand to the side of Stiles’ neck in silent reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere. "I doubt Mrs. Martin hid any eggs in Stilinski’s mouth."

"Go away, Erica," Boyd said, eyes never leaving Stiles’.

Erica laughed and walked off, but the damage was done. Stiles was pulling away. “She’s right,” he said. “We won’t win the egg hunt like this.”

"Don’t care about the egg hunt."

Stiles grinned. “Yeah, you already found the best prize.”

Boyd groaned and kissed Stiles again, whether to shut him up or because they could, he wasn’t sure. He had no idea what he’d just signed himself up for—and no idea what it said about him that he couldn’t wait to find out.


	9. Eliot/Parker/Hardison Star Wars Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jar Jar is many bad things, but he’s not a con."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pterriblepterodactyls said _Leverage + Star Wars Day_. Two great tastes that taste great together.

**And Also With You**

 

Shelley clapped Eliot’s shoulder and slid another beer in front of him. “You know, Spencer, I didn’t think I’d ever see your ugly mug at my poker table again.”

"Hey, man," Eliot said, "it ain’t my fault you took your sweet damn time moving out here. I told you for years you’d love Portland."

"Not talking about Portland," Shelley scoffed. He returned to his seat and started shuffling for the next hand. "I mean your new set-up. If I had what you do at home, I don’t know if I’d ever leave."

"A man’s gotta have his own interests," Eliot said. He maybe sounded a little petulant.

The guy next to Eliot waggled his eyebrows. “You got a new girlfriend?”

Eliot flipped a poker chip from his pile over the backs of his fingers and glanced at Shelley. He was damned proud of the life he was building with Parker and Alec, but some folks were uncomfortable with it and preferred he didn’t talk about it.

Shelley winked and said, " _And_ a boyfriend." He shook his head as he dealt. “You should see them. They’re so perfect together it’s disgusting.”

"Far from perfect," Eliot grumbled.

Shelley rolled his eyes. “What’s so imperfect you were so damned eager to jump at poker tonight?”

Eliot took a long draw off his beer. “Today’s May 4th.”

Most of the guys around the table looked blank, but Shelley’s neighbor Royce burst out laughing. “Which one of ‘em’s into that?” he asked.

"Alec, mostly," Eliot said, "but he’s sorta dragged Parker into it, too." When the other players continued looking confused, he sighed and said, "Today’s  _Star Wars_ day. Y’know—May the fourth.” Nothing. “Like, ‘may the Force be with you’?” A chorus of groans rose around the table. “Yeah, I know, but it’s their thing, and it’s kinda cute the way they get into it. They turned the whole living room into a blanket fort and are gonna watch all six movies. Alec’s got a light saber, and Parker has this stuffed Yoda doll she flips all over the place during his fight scenes.”

"That’s what my son and his friends are doing," Royce said. He looked shrewdly at Eliot. "You didn’t want in on that?"

Eliot shrugged. “Like I said, it’s their thing. We gotta have one-on-one time, stuff we do that’s not all three of us. I made four different herb sprinkles for the disgusting microwave popcorn they’re gonna eat and left ‘em to it.”

"Nice, Royce said, laughing, as he threw a chip onto the pile. "Still, it’s like thirteen hours of movie. They might like your company for a while."

"Maybe," Eliot said. He stared at his hand, and then at his pile of chips. "Maybe." He tapped the corner of his cards on the table. "Shelley—"

Shelley shooed him away. “Money’s in the lock box by the door. I trust you. Cash out and  _go_.”

"Thanks, man!" He only bothered collecting his winnings because Shelley would get pissed if he didn’t. Then he was out the door.

*

"It’s the ears. You can’t trust anyone with ears like that."

"Baby, no, I keep telling you, he’s not—"

"Hey, you two." Eliot toed out of his shoes and padded toward the epic cushion and blanket structure Alec had dubbed "Republic Base Camp."

The voices paused, and then Parker’s voice, muffled by all the fabric, called, “Eliot?”

"Yeah, it’s me, darlin’."

"Eliot!" It took a minute, but then Parker was vaulting out of the fort and throwing herself at him for a hug.

Alec’s head appeared in the gap she’d made, and he grinned. “Man, we didn’t expect you back so soon. You lose all your money already?”

Eliot pulled a face at him over Parker’s head. “Damn it, Hardison, don’t doubt my poker skills. I just…thought you might like the company.”

"Aww, Alec, look," Parker said, hanging monkeylike off Eliot’s neck. "Eliot missed us!"

"Oh, shush," Eliot muttered, flushing and trying to detangle himself from Parker’s hold.

"Well, don’t just stand there, man," Alec said, beckoning him in. "We got five-spice popcorn and a seven-pound bag of gummi frogs. Welcome to Base Camp."

Anticipating nothing but orange soda in the fort, Eliot grabbed two beers and a bottle of water from the fridge and climbed through the gap in the blankets. They had a sweet set-up, but he only had a second to appreciate it before Parker hauled him down beside her on the nest they’d built from couch cushions and guest room pillows. She burrowed into his side, and Alec draped his legs across hers, planting his feet in Eliot’s lap.

"Where we at?" Eliot asked. He wrapped one arm around Parker’s shoulders and used his other hand to massage Alec’s foot.

"The guy with the floppy ears is running a one-man long con on the guys in the brown bathrobes," Parker said, right before she shoved a disgustingly large handful of gummi frogs into her mouth.

"Baby  _girl_ ,” Alec groaned, “how many times I gotta tell you? Jar Jar is many bad things, but he’s not a con. And they aren’t bathrobes. They’re  _Jedi_ robes.”

"He’s trying to convince them to drop the whiny kid in the middle of the desert."

“ _Woman_!” Alec yelped.

Eliot laughed, kissed Parker’s head, and switched to Alec’s other foot. He’d seen these movies before, and he wasn’t going to enjoy rewatching them that much. But he sure couldn’t beat the company.


	10. Brian/Bender & MarMan Flag Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assholes named John have to stick together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> perpetfic said Brian/Bender + Flag Day, with a bonus if they meet the MarMen (not sure what the bonus entails. Other than double the snarky assholes).
> 
> Once again, this is [Lysistrataverse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1699259) (present-day) for Brian and John, and [Hostessverse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1035188) for Josh and Lord Marbury.

**Keep Your Eye on the Grand Old Flag**

 

"This is absurd."

John looks around in confusion. He’d just been thinking that, but he didn’t say it out loud – did he?

Whether it was him or not, the sentiment remains. He’s never understood Flag Day. A whole holiday revolving around the flag?

"I mean, a holiday just for the flag?”

Okay, now John _knows_ he’s not the one speaking. Because he’s not British.

He looks around and focuses on two unassuming white dudes standing near him and Brian. One is their age, with receding curly brown hair and terrible posture. The other’s about fifteen years older, with dark hair going heavily gray, and dressed like—well, to be a dick about it, like an old-school English fop.

Curly-hair pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters, “Yes, John, I know. But can you at least pretend to be awed and humbled?”

That’s good then. Assholes named John have to stick together.

"Awed and humbled?" this new John demands. "By an American flag? Joshua, really.”

Joshua snorts and pats the other John’s hand. They fall silent and return their attention to the Flag Day proclamation and flag ceremony. John tries to do likewise, but it’s just so boring, so he looks at Brian, instead. That’s a better view, anyway.

The ceremony draws to a close without further interruption—and therefore without being of further interest to John. But except when he’s mumbling his way through the Pledge of Allegiance (which he’s surprised he remembers; he mostly slept through that part of school), he manages to keep his mouth shut, which he knows Brian will appreciate. Sure enough, as soon as the ceremony ends, Brian squeezes his hand and gives him one of those big smiles that crinkles the corners of his eyes. Christ, John is seriously too old to still be so smitten with the same damned guy. “I know you don’t think much of these things,” Brian says, still holding his hand like they’re a couple of high school girls, “but I appreciate you being here and not snarking the whole time.”

John shrugs and looks away to hide the fact that Brian’s praise still makes him blush. “Didn’t have to,” he says. “The other guy said everything I was thinking. And he said it with a better accent.”

Brian frowns. “Who?”

"The British asshole named John. He’s right, uh…" John looks around but can only spot the curly-haired guy. "Well, there’s the guy he was with."

Brian makes a choking noise but waves off John’s concerned look. “That’s Josh Lyman,” Brian says. “President Santos’ chief of staff.” Well, okay, now John’s a little impressed. Apparently the guy’s less unassuming than he thought. Which makes him…assuming? John knew they had to be somebody; nobodies don’t get invited to President Santos’ Flag Day proclamation. He and Brian are only here because Brian was already in town to advise the presidential computer crimes task force (which Santos should fucking give him a spot on, already). “Which means,” Brian continues, “that the man you charmingly call ‘the British asshole named John’ is Lord John Marbury, the British ambassador.”

John grins. “Wanna go introduce ourselves?”

"As, what, one smartass John to another?"

"I think that’d be enough for my John," a new voice says. They turn in time to see Josh Lyman grimace. "That sounded wrong." John snorts, and Josh grins at him, even as he holds his hand out toward Brian. "Representative Johnson, it’s good to meet you."

They do the hi-how-are-you-nice-to-meet-you song and dance, which John usually hates but kind of enjoys this time because Josh smiles like he’s perpetually two seconds from telling the world’s dirtiest joke. Josh jerks his thumb behind him. “Want to meet John?”

Brian looks at his John and grimaces. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

"Brian," Josh says, grinning and clapping Brian’s shoulder, "I’m sure it’s a terrible idea. But a really fun one.”

Brian shakes his head as they follow Josh in search of Ambassador Marbury. “The things I do for my flag,” he mutters.

John laughs and slings his arm around Brian’s shoulders. “God bless America.”


	11. Sterek Pride Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dad has spies everywhere. The instant I walked out of any drug store, convenience store, or gas station in this town, somebody’d be calling the station to ask if the sheriff knows his son’s buying Pride Day prophylactics."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody asked for this. I just wanted some Pride Day Sterek with background Scira and eavesdropping Melissa. As one does.

**Double-Blind**

 

"Scotty,  _pleeeease_.”

Melissa paused outside the closed door to Scott’s room. By this point she was mostly immune to Stiles’ pleading, but today it had a new undertone of desperation.

"I only need two—well, okay, maybe three. And I swear I’ll buy you a whole replacement box tomorrow. I just don’t have time to drive to Beacon Valley before Derek and I leave for San Francisco. And I think tonight after the festival, we’re gonna, you know…put Tab A into Slot B."

Melissa choked.

"Whoa, dude, congrats!" Scott said. "Which one are you?"

_Really, Scott?_

"Uh, both, eventually, if Derek knows what’s good for him."

_Really, Stiles?_

"Nice. So why would you have to go to Beacon Valley?"

"Dude, come on; Dad has spies everywhere. The instant I walked out of any drug store, convenience store, or gas station in this town, somebody’d be calling the station to ask if the sheriff knows his son’s buying Pride Day prophylactics."

_Too true._

Scott laughed. “Yeah, totally. You know,” he said, voice suddenly uncertain, “you don’t need them.”

Melissa had never known her eyes could get that wide. Given what she’d dealt with over the past year and a half, that was saying a lot.

"Scott Mateo Werewolf McCall, are you telling me to have unsafe sex?"

In the hall, Melissa crossed her arms.  _Yes, Scott Mateo Werewolf McCall, is that what you’re telling him? I’m very interested to know that, too._

"It wouldn’t be unsafe. Werewolf super-healing isn’t just for stab wounds and claw marks. We can’t get or pass STIs."

"Says who?" Stiles demanded. 

"Uh, your boyfriend and his uncle. The  _born werewolves_.”

"Yeah," Stiles said, unimpressed. "Derek’s most reliable source of wolfen information died when he was barely 16, and Peter’s never met a fact he couldn’t misrepresent, contort, or ignore. Forgive me if I don’t take my chances. You’re always stocked up."

"Cause I don’t want to get my girlfriend pregnant. You and Derek don’t have to worry about that, so…and it’s not like either of you is sleeping with anybody else, right?"

Melissa had had enough. She opened the door and slammed into the room. “Scott Mateo Werewolf McCall, I raised you better than this!” Two very shocked and guilty-looking teenaged boys stared at her. “You do not discourage your friends from using protection!”

"But, Mom," Scott protested, "Derek’s immune system—"

"No." Melissa yanked the box of condoms out of Scott’s hand and shoved it into Stiles’. "Not until you show me three articles in peer-reviewed journals. How would you feel if Stiles got…lycan gonorrhea because you took Peter Hale’s word on anything?"

Eyes wide, Stiles clutched the box and backed toward the door. “Oh, shit, that’s—I’m gonna…um, yeah, thanks for the—yeah. Bye! Happy Pride!” He bolted from the room.

"Mom!" Scott waved his hands, distraught. "You gave away my whole supply!"

"Then you’d better hope Kira has some. Or maybe you’ll do without sex for a few days while you think about things."

"What things?!?" he wailed. 

Melissa glared at him and walked out of the room. Then she grinned. Peer-reviewed double-blind werewolf study. Heck, as long as she was dreaming, she'd like to study a few other things, too, like smelling emotions and where the hell Derek's eyebrows went.

She snorted. Maybe she’d call John. And Chris. She could use a drink. And time with adults. She wondered if John knew about his son’s Pride plans. Well. At least he’d be safe.


	12. Jallison Fourth of July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She never would’ve imagined a day when Jackson Whittemore would be excited about pack dynamics, but he really seemed to have found himself in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ericaismeg requested Jallison and Fourth of July, and with Jackson still officially in London, I couldn't resist.
> 
> This one contains a stealth crossover with Gail Carrriger's Parasol Protectorate series, because I believe in a world where the Mayfair Pack would've adopted Jackson the instant he arrived in London (in particular, I think Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings would _love_ Jackson). You don't need to have read that series to understand this (though if you like werewolves, there's a good chance you'll like these books), but here's a wee guide:
> 
> Unlike in _Teen Wolf_ , where a pack has one alpha and everyone else is a beta, packs in PP have one alpha, one beta who serves as the alpha's second-in-command, and one gamma. Everyone else is "a pack member." The Mayfair Pack's beta is Professor Randolph Lyall, my favorite male character in the series. Given the incredible longevity the series ascribes to nonalpha werewolves, I feel justified in saying he'll still be beta at this point.
> 
> Lord Akeldama is the unfathomably old, impeccably fashionable, and absurdly foppish vampire who lives next door to the Mayfair Pack house, and whose life is intertwined with the pack's in numerous inextricable ways.
> 
> A sundowner is anyone with government authority to kill supernatural creatures. Like a 00 agent for werewolves and vampires. The chief sundowner is the one who's best at it; it's an earned title, not an assigned one.

**Rockets' Red Glare**

 

"Allison!  _Allison_!”

Allison slowed and turned. Her eyes widened. “ _Jackson_?”

He looked better. More relaxed. Less like he had something to prove to the entire world. He bounded over and engulfed her in a hug. “Lydia said you were in town, but I didn’t think I’d see you.”

She smiled gratefully. He seemed to understand that she was in London to rest and regroup, not to check in on the wayward werewolves of Beacon Hills. “Needed some fresh air,” she said.

Jackson nodded and led her to the Princess of Wales memorial. “You okay?” he asked as they sat on the fountain’s edge. “Healing okay? Lydia said it was really bad.”

Automatically, Allison’s hand went to the ropy scar left by the Oni’s blade. “The doctors didn’t think I’d make it.” She chuckled. “I wouldn’t have without Mrs. Yukimura’s kitsune magic helping me along.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Lydia’s keeping you updated on everything, huh?”

Jackson shrugged. “It’s funny. We were never friends before we dated. Since we broke up, we’re trying it. It’s dumb, but I guess it’s kind of nice.”

"You’re broken up for real now?"

He nodded. “Long-distance was a drag. You?”

"No, I—" She shook her head. "There was almost something with Isaac, but I got sick of him checking in with Scott at every step. What I do isn’t up to him."

"That must’ve sucked," Jackson said. "I messed up a lot of stuff with Lydia, but I definitely learned not to do  _that_.”

Allison felt like a conversation had happened  _under_  that conversation—an offer being made, and a promise to consider it. She felt excited by the promise of it, the idea that they could leave it to germinate as long as they wanted, pick it whenever they felt ready. She smiled at him and then looked around the park. “It feels weird being here today.”

"Today? Why?" Jackson blinked and then laughed. "Oh, man, I didn’t even remember!"

"Every inch of Beacon Hills will be covered in flags and grills. But it’s an ordinary day here."

"Yeah," Jackson said, laughing. Then he grabbed her arm. "Let’s have a cookout."

"What?" She was laughing, too, now with incredulity. "Come on, Jackson."

"No, I mean it. We’ll buy a bunch of steaks and burgers, and you and me and your dad can grill them in the back yard between the pack house and Lord Akeldama’s. He’ll laugh at us; it’ll make his year." Allison watched Jackson’s mind leap ahead as though they’d already agreed, and, honestly, she couldn’t think of any reason  _not_ to. “We’ll get stuff for s’mores, too. Maybe we can even find some sparklers.” He frowned. “And buy a grill. Whatever. The pack’s loaded.”

"This suddenly sounds  _really_ complicated. You’re sure your pack won’t mind?”

“ _Someone else_ offering to cook a bunch of meat for them? Yeah. I’m sure.”

Allison laughed. “Yeah, okay. And will they be okay with—I mean, a lot of things have changed, but technically we’re still hunters. Is that…okay?”

He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Beta Lyall is Her Majesty’s chief sundowner. They’ll get it.” He stood, pulling her up with him and seeming not to notice that he hadn’t let go of her hand. “Okay, let’s get going. We have a lot of shopping to do. See if your dad wants to meet up; I’ll fill you in on the pack dynamics.”

Allison laughed. She never would’ve imagined a day when Jackson Whittemore would be excited about pack dynamics, but he really seemed to have found himself in London. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

He squinted at her. “The fuck was that for?”

She laughed and twined their fingers together. “Just felt like it. Happy Fourth, Jackson.”

"Sure, whatever. Happy Fourth."


	13. Bruce/Tony Boss's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re backwards, I think. Shouldn’t _she_ buy gifts for _you_ on Boss’s Day?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the_wordbutler requested a Bruce/Tony Boss's Day ficlet--and she did it ON BOSS'S DAY. Because she is terribly clever.
> 
> This one snuck into Ms. Wordbutler's phenomenal [Motion Practice](http://archiveofourown.org/series/24545) series, which I'm thankful that she lets me play in. I don't think it's necessary to have read any of the stories in that series to understand this one (because, damn, that'd be a lot of reading), but if it piques your interest, definitely check the series out, because the stories in it are epic masterpieces and far superior to my humble ficlet.

**#1 Boss (It Ain't Me, Babe)**

 

Tony buzzes around the kitchen in his stocking feet, red tie crooked, suit jacket flung in the general direction of the front door. He’s chugging scalding hot coffee like he’s never going to see it again and barely dodging the dogs, cats, and children ( _"What is this child doing here?" he’d demanded. "This child is not ours." "Favor to Steve and Bucky, remember?" Bruce’d said calmly, lifting his mug of tea out of Tony’s frantic way. All morning he’d watched his husband zoom around the house like a madman, observing with an affectionate befuddlement as Tony consistently made every task take twice as long in his haste. "Miles is dropping her at her school on the way to his; don’t worry."_ ) in his rush to get out the door.

"Okay," Bruce says once they’re en route, "why did we have to leave twenty minutes early?"

"Because flowers!" Tony says, voice high and sharp. "I forgot to pick up Pepper’s flowers."

Bruce runs through his mental list of standard gift-giving holidays. It’s not any of those. It’s not Pepper’s birthday, the anniversary of when she started working in the DA’s office, or her anniversary with Natasha (and, come to think of it, Tony buys  _Natasha_ a gift on that day, usually something  _shockingly_ inappropriate, as thanks for “sexing Pepper on the regular, which keeps her calm enough not to kill me where I stand”). Administrative Professionals’ day was in April. “I’ll bite,” Bruce says. “Why did you get Pepper flowers?”

"Boss’s Day!" Tony shrieks as they pull into the florist’s parking lot. "Today is Boss’s Day."

Bruce’s eyes widen, and he follows Tony into the store with some trepidation. “You’re backwards, I think. Shouldn’t  _she_ buy gifts for  _you_ on Boss’s Day?”

Tony shoots him a sharp look, but before he can reply, a brown-haired woman in a green apron appears behind the counter. “Mr. Stark,” she says, smiling broadly at him, “I’m glad you made it in this morning. My girls did a lovely job this year.”

A teenager in a matching apron, no doubt one of the “girls,” comes out of the back carrying a large flower arrangement. It’s a beautiful, cheerful thing full of brightly colored chrysanthemums and peonies. A small Mylar balloon quivers excitedly on the end of a plastic stick; it says “THANK YOU!” in cheerful primary colors.

Tony makes grabby hands at the arrangement and cradles it against his chest as soon as the shop assistant hands it over. “ _Thank you_ ,” he says fervently, waving his fingertips at the florist. “Kate, seriously, you’re a lifesaver; you saved my life. Nameless florist’s assistant who I’m sure is really quite nice, thank you, too. Life. Saved. No joke. Bruce, pay the woman.” Bruce stares at him. He huffs and jerks his head toward his back pocket. “Come on, big guy. Wallet. Back pocket. Pull it out and make with the goods-procuring. Not like you’ve never touched my ass in public before.”

Kate-the-florist hides a laugh behind a cough, and Bruce doesn’t know whose face is a brighter red, his or the teenage girl’s. But he takes out Tony’s wallet, picks a credit card at random, and hands it over. Kate rings up the sale, and they leave the store among several more declarations of Tony’s undying gratitude.

Miles texts while they’re on their way in, and Bruce and Tony’s conversation turns to the mundane details of family life—upcoming exams; is our kid getting enough sleep; where did the Rogers-Barnses find toast-patterned pajamas and why did Dot want them? Bruce doesn’t  _forget_ the flowers, exactly—how could he, when he holds them on his lap the entire way to the office?—but only when he comes back from lunch  _much_ later that afternoon and sees Pepper sitting at her desk rubbing the petals between her fingers does he remember that he never figured out why Tony got them for her.

When he asks, she fixes him with her best _you’re kidding, right?_ stare and then says, “Bruce, imagine that  _you_ had Tony Stark as a boss. If you worked for him every weekday and most weekend days year after year without  _killing him—_ if you were, in fact, a large part of the reason he is a functioning professional who doesn’t get debarred or thrown in jail on a regular basis—you’d get flowers on Boss’s Day, too.”

Put like that, Bruce really can’t argue.

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://www.hugealienpie.tumblr.com>tumbl%20with%20me</a>%20all%20year%20'round.)


End file.
